Ol' Frankie is Home
by Enjolrass
Summary: Movie/musical/autobiography based. Little drabbles involving Frank and whoever else. Lots of cute. My goal is to make you cry every so often. I'm a nice person, I know. Enjoy!
1. Beginning

**Woo, Catch Me drabbles! Mostly in honor of the tour going around this fall, otherwise due to my ridiculous love for Catch Me the musical, movie, and book, and the genius behind it all, Frank Abagnale, Jr. **

**Based off a little 30 or so day drabble challenge I thought would be awesome to do. So I'll either keep it Hanratty and Frank's freakin adorable father/son relationship, maybe a few with Brenda, or Frank Sr., who knows. But they'll all involve Frank because anyone who really knows me knows I know Frank like the back of my hand.**

**Anywhoodlie, to prevent rambling further, enjoy!**

* * *

**Beginnings.**

_There's no phone booth, there's no cape._

_There's no Steve McQueen to help me make my great escape._

That was for sure.

To be truthful, it hadn't really hit him until his feet hit the pavement, pounding with every exaggerated stride he took. The street flew by from there. Not one person gave him a second thought- didn't he hang out with those troublemakers down the street anyways?

He ran for his life. He ran from home, from security, from the father and mother he loved so dearly, from everything he knew.

A divorce, they told him. He'd seen kids at school disappear because of divorce, when parents split and moved far away. Half of them were never heard from again. The other half turned harsh and cold, and thoughts of either were pushed right out of his head.

_No_, he forced himself to think._ I don't have to choose mom, and I don't have to choose dad._

Dad. His store was headed straight for its last days in business. How could he leave him?

But mom, too. All alone with nobody to look after her (though he had suspicions about the president of the club his dad was in). She said she'd stop smoking, too.

How could they make him choose? How could they even consider it? Didn't they know he loved them both so much?

Maybe running would bring them back together. Maybe they could be a happy family again. Maybe…

But he wouldn't think about any of it. He focused on his stride. Powerful. Purposeful. That distant point in the world calling for him, _"Come."_

He kept running. His eyes searched the streets, the shops, until they fell upon a train station. Frantically, he felt inside his jacket pocket for any spare change.

All he had was a checkbook.

* * *

_I'm not afraid of stopping_

_This end could be my start._

The kid was miserable, that much Hanratty could tell.

Of course he didn't have a whole lot of sympathy. He couldn't. This guy was a con, and it could all be an act. _"Misdirection,"_ he remembered himself saying. _"He's a con, he has the technique."_

But this was no technique he'd ever seen. Not the sympathy card. Not the look on his face.

"_Your dad's dead, Frank."_

_He froze completely, hand still in the air from having gestured at a painting in his head, an alternate ending to this abrupt one he had the wildest, most desperate hopes for. Such desperate hopes. _

_Had it been anyone else, Hanratty would've pitied him._

"_Yeah, sorry to be the one to tell you. Metro stairway-"_

"_You're lying to me."_

_Frank shook his head, turning and walking in a complete circle around him. His eyes were glazed over with tears, try as he might to blink them away, and such only allowed them to fall freely._

"_Frank, I wouldn't lie to you."_

"_No!" His voice cracked, a knot forming in his throat as he willed his tears away. He would not be weak. Not now. "You don't get to say that! That's not how this ends!"_

He was breaking all over. His will was one slip from shattering, and the glue, the feeble hope, the wild, ridiculous determination to continue evading capture wouldn't last long.

He was wanted on five continents.

Hanratty watched as fellow policemen and agents closed in on Frank. For the first time, or so it seemed, he acknowledged the fact that he was a kid. Just a kid, not even twenty years old.

And what nineteen year or so old wouldn't avoid federal prison?

He knew the circumstances. He knew the consequences. He knew how it had to end.

But for so long he'd been an independent actor, writing, directing, and producing his own scripts. This new direction, this sudden authority Hanratty and the federal government held was so new. So unexpected.

He had no business being a con man. He was just a kid.

It was for that reason he shooed the others away. Damn the odd looks, the disapproving and the muttering as they backed off and out of the terminal.

He was just a kid. _Just a kid._

Hanratty paused for a moment, watching Frank carefully. He was in a sorry state. Wild eyes, tousled hair, breathing heavily. Desperate for understanding.

For a father. How could he have been so cruel?

Carefully, he stepped toward him. As he expected, Frank backed away, but he only kept on.

"Frank, I don't have all day." But the look in his eyes was a little gentler. A little more understanding. Willing to coax him into giving up. "They're guarding the perimiter, Frank. If you fly tonight, you face prison in Europe, Asia-"

"I know." It was the first time the kid had spoken since his emotional outbursts, of which he clearly had yet to recover from.

He continued. "If you stay here, there's at least a chance of being treated as a juvenile, maybe a lighter sentence."

He watched Frank pause, confusion clouding his teary eyes. "Why are you doing this for me?"

"I'm arresting you, Frank."

"You're treating me like a person."

Another pause. Hanratty took the chance to stride over and clip one handcuff around Frank's wrist, the other on his.

"You're a kid, Frank. I'm gonna help you out. Alright?"

It took a few moments for the confusion to fade from his expression. Hints of questions passed over his face, but those damn tears were spilling now, and this time, he did nothing to stop them.

"Why do you care?"

Hanratty looked him straight in the eye. He couldn't say it, not again. He'd been a jerk telling him earlier, not at all sympathetic to his own father's _death_, and now he was going to make up for it.

That, and as much as he convinced himself otherwise, he really did care.

Despite the handcuff keeping one arm to his side, Frank leaped over and clung to him, burrowing his face in his shoulder.

Much to his own surprise, Hanratty found he really didn't mind, and it wasn't long before he returned that hug.

"Come on, Frank, we're outta here."


	2. Accusation

**Movie drabbles this time around~ "Beginning" was definitely hardcore musical based. Because the Tveitmeister, and I'm just going to keep picturing the Tveitmeister as Frank and Norbert Leo Butz as Hanratty because frickin bromance guys.**

**for anyone who does not know me and molly personally or my tumblr (url being tveitmeister), the tveitmeister is Aaron Tveit.**

**Also, I chose not to write out the entire "you swear" dialogue because that's more Frank trying to put off the inevitable/use misdirection against Hanratty and I wanted to focus more on the concept of accusation. **

* * *

**Accusation.**

_You said you'd quit._

His mom smoked.

And she smoked a lot.

Frank was never fond of the cigarette. Years on, he'd still refuse to even drink, maybe a glass of champagne, some wine, but never anything strong. Drunkenness wasn't a part of his lifestyle. He hated it. He hated the stench of alcohol, or a lit cigar.

He knew the consequences, and he wasn't too keen on facing them, either, so he didn't smoke, nor drink.

In fact, Frank wasn't a big fan of consequences in general.

That was for sure.

But smoking and drinking, surely that was different. A few flimsy checks wouldn't kill anybody. A cigarette or too much beer could. The consequences couldn't be nearly as high as a deadly alcohol overdose or the nicotine in a cigarette.

He never tried to redeem himself. He knew he was a criminal, he knew as much from the very beginning. He was a fraud. Those checks he passed were worthless. The money he gained wasn't his.

All the same, sometimes it was nice to imagine a worse lifestyle than his.

* * *

_You said you didn't have a family; you lied to me about that, too!_

Frank clutched the phony checks as if for dear life. His chest was heaving, sweat dripped down his entire body. That old shop with his precious printers was too hot when they got to working.

But it was all he could do to keep his sanity intact. To give him something to live for.

What else did he face but prison? Years and years of federal prison? How could he subject himself to such a fate?

And so, he printed those checks.

So blissfully fake, so close to being the real thing. This was what he'd become. This was what he lived for. This was his purpose.

To con the hell out of mankind.

Of course that Hanratty had other plans. But he didn't care. Like hell he cared.

"_You're gonna have to catch me first."_

No way was he giving up, not now. He was in too deep. It scared him, but he wouldn't admit that. Not now. Not ever.

And there was that wedding ring. That damned wedding ring. Hanratty was a liar, just as bad as Frank, wasn't he? How could he trust Hanratty? How did he know he was actually in the FBI? What if he was just going to kill him and take all that money? What if-

"You asked if I have a family. I said I didn't. I had one. Not anymore."

It took Frank a moment to process his words. _I had one._ He hadn't necessarily been lying. He just hadn't told him the whole truth. It was Frank's own technique that had cruelly backfired against him.

Again he ran for it, bolting for the door as fast as he could, scooping checks into his grasp as he went. He wasn't going to prison, not if he could help it. Not if they couldn't catch him.

"They're gonna kill you, Frank!"

He froze.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned at the door, just barely meeting Hanratty's expressionless-as-always gaze. Was that fear he saw? It couldn't be. Not from Hanratty, it couldn't.

His voice came quietly, cracked. Afraid. "Is that the truth?"

A pause. "Yeah."

Frank swallowed hard, taking a feeble step from the door. "… You swear?"

Hanratty only nodded.


	3. Restless

**Restless.**

_Any city, near or far_

_Feels twice as good as where you are_

"Yeah, uh, my name is Frank Williams. I'm a co-pilot for Pan Am based out in San Francisco, I flew out this morning at 8 o'clock and I'm due out at 7 tonight. Now, it's never happened to me before, but I sent my uniform through the hotel to be dry cleaned and apparently they lost it on the way…. Yes, thank you."

Frank wasn't a co-pilot. He'd set foot inside Pan Am once in his lifetime.

And, honestly? He couldn't even fly a kite.

But he pretended to. He kept making those phony checks, put on that _real_ uniform with the _real_ wings on it. But he was far from a _real_ pilot. He had that phony FFA license and Pan Am ID on him, too, but they certainly _looked_ real.

Frank was good at his job. But his job wasn't flying. No, it was a game of lies. As long as he kept up the façade, the half-truths identity of Frank Williams, he was winning.

He kept on running. Kept on passing those fake checks, smiling at the gorgeous tellers and coaxing secrets of the check out of them with his flawless charm. And now, he could do just that wherever he pleased.

He could fly out to any Pan Am base without even flying himself. All he had to do was fill out one of those forms and board another airline's next flight to anywhere in the world, paperhanging all the while.

He knew he was a crook. He knew everything he was doing was illegal and the only way it could end was in jail. But he could very easily decide when and where that happened, as long as he kept up being a co-pilot.

As long as he didn't fly Pan Am, as long as nobody ever recognized him, as long as nobody learned he was 16 and not 26, he was perfectly safe.

He always felt safe. Lies came so naturally, so convincingly, and the ladies could be misdirected in just a few words and a flirtatious wink. It was so easy to learn from them.

If learning the tricks of the con man's trade was a career path one could study for, Frank was at the top of his class.

He loved the chase. The game of cat and mouse with the government. He loved to run, to be free to do as he pleased. He had everything he ever wanted. The fame, the fortune, the ladies, the respect. People looked up to pilots. They controlled the skies. He was a big guy now.

He never stayed somewhere very long. He'd fly out to Miami, hook up with a stew, maybe a teller, and stay with them for a week. Soak in the information they had to offer. He often promised he'd return.

What could he say? The lies flowed from his mouth. Virtue wasn't one of his virtues.

He kept flying. Kept running, and he ran until he couldn't run anymore.

But even track runners only have so long to run before the race is over.

* * *

_There are lots of folks that I miss every day_

Frank Abagnale, Sr. had been dead for seven years.

And today would've been his birthday.

He dreamed about his childhood often. Coming home after school to a smile from his dad, watching his parents dance around the living room, driving around town with his dad, going out to dinner with him…

And now he was gone.

It wasn't an open wound any longer to think about his dad. But it was often a searing pain in his chest, when he wondered what his dad would think of him now. If he knew he'd been caught, and was working for the FBI these days. If he could talk to him now.

He loved his dad. He'd always loved his dad, like every good son did. But what good son left their father in debt and newly divorced? What kind of a son was Frank?

He didn't deserve Carl's sudden care and kindness. He didn't deserve to be let out of prison so early. He just wanted to curl up and die.

He wanted his dad back.

Frank kept to his tiny office in the back that Monday, staring at a fraudulent check he was supposed to analyze. Through his sorrowful reveries and his anger at how horrible he'd been to his father, he shoved the book of fake checks aside, crossing his arms over the desk and hiding his face in them.

He wanted to die. He _hated_ it here. He hated everything. He hated those stupid checks, and that stupid room, and the stupid FBI, and stupid Carl, stupid everything, even his own stupid self. He wanted to run away and never look back. He didn't even care where he ran, or if he flew, or if he got re-arrested.

Alright, maybe he cared if he got re-arrested.

He glanced at the clock at what seemed like ages later. It was noon. He and Carl had developed a sort of routine, going out to get sandwiches every Monday and Friday for lunch, and usually by now he'd be out to meet him and go.

But he stayed where he was, head burrowed in his arms, eyes squeezed shut to keep back his stupid tears.

A knock at the door. He didn't answer.

But of course Carl walked right in anyways.

Carl. He'd done so much for him; lightened his sentence, brought him into the FBI to help him pay off his debt and stop other less experienced paperhangers, taken him under his wing.

Treated him like a son.

And that's what set him off.

He closed the door behind himself, crouching beside the desk. "… You gonna eat lunch today?"

No response.

"Frank." He sighed, just barely lifting his head to glance at Carl. His eyes were rimmed red, tears streaked down his face.

"I'm not hungry."

It was then that Carl realized what day it was.

"Frank, you've gotta eat something," he coaxed.

He suddenly looked so small, and felt it too, dropping his head back into his arms, never mind Carl was right there. "I'm not going anywhere."

"_Frank._"

He was shaking now, and Carl knew it was because Frank hated crying, especially in front of him. Sighing, he slid his arm around his shoulders, hugging them a little.

He let out a choked sob, which was certainly progress, but it broke his heart to see the kid like this. He had such emotional extremes- either he was collected or flying apart, there was no in-between. It was so hard to tell what he was thinking; he so often put on a smile when something was bothering him. But when he flew apart he knew it was something big, or he would be under that emotionless mask as usual.

It took him a few minutes to calm down, but by then he'd spoken. "I'm hungry."

Carl had to smile at that. "Come on, Frank. Lunch is on me."


End file.
